


How it could have gone

by NovaNara



Series: Let's write Sherlock (mostly too late) [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drunklock, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reverse stag night: it starts with company and they end it on their own</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Conan Doyle and BBC share any rights. I make them dance. (I miss Jim entirely too much.) A.N. Today's my birthday, so I'm offering this as a present to my dear readers. Reviews would be the best gift ever. Unbetaed, so all errors and misconceptions are entirely mine. Forgive me and set me straight.

 This whole best man lark will be the end of Sherlock Holmes. It's one daunting task after another. But it means he's – incredibly – been acknowledged as John's best friend, and he'll do absolutely anything to feel like he earned that title, even just a little. The current headache is called stag do. Which apparently doesn't concern wildlife at all, despite its name.

There's the planning:

Sherlock is about ready to pull out all his curls in frustration. Neither Best man for dummies nor the web offer a simple, step-by-step guide to a not disappointing stag night. The detective isn't even sure what the exact requirements are. He knows that following his instinct can only lead to disaster. What is he supposed to do?

“Tell me you're not using this movie as a reference,” John pleads when he finds Sherlock watching the first Hangover movie.

“It's the most useful suggestion I've found yet,” the sleuth admits. A tiger in the bathroom and a Chinese mafia boss in a car trunk? It looks like exactly the kind of night John, with his adrenaline addiction, would find the most fun.

“They _lost the groom_ ,” John points out sternly. His friend never liked when Sherlock abandoned him somewhere. Right.

Still, the detective replies, “And now they're deducing – or trying to – where he might be. Though, of course, they don't observe things properly...” If he misplaced John, he'd find him back in a tick. No need to worry.

“Look, I'll play deduction tag with you if you want, but nothing so outlandish will happen in my stag night,” the doctor says firmly.

“But you'd have fun! Isn't that the point of it?” Sherlock queries, frustrated.

“Really, Sherlock, I understand why you like it. It's sort of like a case. And while I indeed do have a lot of fun on our cases – much more than it's decent, probably, not that I mind – there will be absolutely no casework on my stag night. I refuse to jinx myself.”

“Uh?” is the more intelligent reply the sleuth can manage. Why suddenly against casework? John isn't even married yet. It's unfair.

“The point of the stag do isn't just to have fun,” John explains. “It's the last occasion to do all the fun things you really shouldn't indulge in as a responsible, married man. Like ogling other women, for example. As a responsible, married man I have every intention to follow you on a lot of cases. So I'm not jinxing myself by doing it during that night.”

“Oh.” Sherlock can breathe easier now. It makes sense. Well, the idea of jinxing is a ridiculous superstition in the first place, but Sherlock is all for not doing anything to risk that John won't come along anymore.

“I should have known that you wouldn't know what to do about this. Not even where to start. Need any help?” John offers. He's kind, but...

"It's a best man's work,” the detective counters. He's not being revoked his best man ( _friend)_ status because he isn't normal enough, is he? He swallows his panic.

“I know, but I was thinking...you know, something like the prompters to help with creative writing. I could give you a spreadsheet with a few acceptable places, activities, people, and whatever else comes to mind, and you could pick one or more on each category. I still wouldn't know the specifics, and I could sleep easier knowing that I'm not going to have to face wild cats anytime soon,” John elaborates with a smile.

Sherlock answers with a grin of his own, “I could work like that.” A spreadsheet. None of the books or websites had anything remotely so sensible. John knows him. And he's not repudiating Sherlock. He's helping, as always. In Sherlock's chest suddenly explodes the warmth that only John knows how to put there.

...Then, there's the organizing:

He almost gets turned away at the door, but John's name gains him entrance to Major Sholto's house. (Sherlock isn't jealous of the man. The major had nothing more than he himself had, after all – before he was forced to give it away. Well, he _did_ see John in uniform...)

“What about John Watson?” Sholto queries, once they're seated in a sitting room that clearly hasn't seen a guest in months.

“He's getting married,” Sherlock answers simply.

“I know,” the major replies impatiently, and he seems ready to dismiss the detective.

“Which means he's having a stag do. You should be there,” the sleuth hurries to explain.

“I'm not exactly fun company,” the soldier points out with a shrug.

“But you're honestly fond of him. Most of John's so called friends don't really appreciate him. I won't have them in a setting where abundant alcohol consumption – which seems to be necessary – could make them say mean things. Only people who really see John for the wonderful person he is are admitted, and since that is a somewhat elitist club, it should at least be in full attendance,” Sherlock replies, almost vehemently.

“I'm not saying you're wrong. But how do you know I'm really fond of him? You just met me and we exchanged no more than two lines.” Sholto seems almost amused now.

“You've not had visitors in at least three months, but let me in when I mentioned John. And the way you said his name before – I'd be a poor consulting detective if I couldn't see whether your interest and fondness was fake or not,” Sherlock bits back. Oh no. He's accidentally deduced. Now Sholto will hate him and not come.

Instead, the major only comments, “ Oh. So _you_ 're the one,” in a carefully neutral voice. He doesn't seem very put off.

“Anyway, you're the only one of John's army friends that I could reach that meets the requirements. Service was a great part of John's life. Someone should be there to represent it,” Sherlock says, hoping the appeal will work.

“And I can arrange for you to have a driver to and from the venue, so you shouldn't worry about that,” he continues. He's talking too much, but Sholto is silent and still clearly unsure about coming. How can he convince the man?

“And you should know – I didn't find you checking the government files about John's team. John gave me a list of people to contact. He wants you there. And if anyone deserves having everything he's ever wished for, it's John Watson. I'm sure you agree.”

“I'll still probably be a sad drunk,” Sholto warns seriously.

“But will you come?” Sherlock queries.

“If you can smuggle me. I've been under siege from the media lately.” The major grimaces.

“That,” Sherlock assures, “can definitely be arranged.” He'll owe Mycroft, but who cares? It only matters giving John everything he wants. He just hopes Gavin won't play this hard to get.

...And then there's finally the stag night itself, and he wonders how he'll survive that.

The John Watson appreciation club is in full attendance...all four of them. Beyond Sherlock and Sholto, there are Mike Stamford and Geoff Lestrade. Sherlock has interviewed dozens of people on John's list, and this is what they're reduced to. The world is full of idiots blind to the amazing nature of John Watson.

Sherlock has organized a tour between pubs to recap John's life (sort of; what he can). Which means starting near Bart's, with a pub Mike remembers the both of them getting permanently banned from in their wild youth. But apparently the owners don't remember – or they've changed too much to be recognized – because no one tries to throw them out. Probably it's a bit of both. There's some wistfulness, and some ridiculous anecdotes interspersed with the drinking. Then, John loudly proclaims that Sherlock keeps him young, because his experiments often look like the practical jokes of his uni days.

“They're not _jokes_ ,” Sherlock protests, and John is quick to apologize.

Another drink, and they're near the ministry of defence – sort of. It's as close to a military place as it gets while staying in London. Sholto, who kept mostly quiet before, is now tipsy enough to be more talkative. He teases John gently about settling down, and how a quiet life doesn't seem to suit the captain Watson he knew. The brave doctor who refused to stay as safe as possible, as medical officers bloody should. Sholto recounts for them some of John's heroics, while the groom to be tries to downplay it all.

All too soon, though, Sholto's prediction comes true and he becomes quite depressed. What Sherlock didn't expect is Stamford to the rescue. “Don't be so down, mate. Tell me. I'm a fixer,” the man boasts.

“I'm sure you're a doctor, but...”

“No,” Mike cuts in. “Well, yes. But I'm a _fixer_. You should have seen John a few years ago. He _limped_ , would you believe me? I brought him to Sherlock. All fixed.” He snaps his fingers. “Sherlock, too. He was a terror. And now here he is, all well behaved, and hasn't even made anyone cry yet.”

It's all true, of course. They owe Stamford, but still Sherlock finds his jab distasteful. Before he can reply, though, there's John, saying, “Don't _dare_ him, Mike.”

Stamford laughs loudly, and replies, “ 'Course not. We know that you can still destroy people with your tongue, Sherlock. But you don't need to as often. It's all I'm saying.”

Unable to decide on a suitable answer, the detective takes a sip of his drink. Thank God, Mike has already forgotten him. “And anyway, I'm a listener,” he adds. “If I can't fix. That's something. You can rant at me.” Not now, but before the night is gone, Sherlock suspects Sholto will take Mike up on his offer. The man needs someone to listen.

Then it's out to a place near Lauriston Gardens, and John grins widely. “Everything felt surreal that first time,” he confesses, “as if I was dreaming and I'd surely wake up soon, still in that wretched bedsit. God, but I was so lucky that it was all true.”

“ _I_ was lucky; you're my lifeline, John,” the sleuth counters emphatically. Which is perhaps more than he should have revealed.

Geoff, bless him, doesn't let the awkwardness set in, smoothly concluding, “We were all lucky. You've stopped a lot of policemen from committing murder, John.” In the end, they all laugh raucously.

A few more drinks, and Sherlock, drunk, is making a fool of himself and demanding assurance that John will come on more cases with him. His blogger is quick to reassure, but Sherlock's fears bubble out nonetheless. “No you won't,” he whines. “You'll be too busy.”

Sholto cuts in, “Oh for the love of God! The man clearly loves it. Of course he'll come along.” He hasn't seen John in years, and he can see this clear as day. Shouldn't the detective realize it?

“And if he doesn't, I'm coming to get him myself. I'm sure saving everyone's sanity qualifies as public emergency. You're warned, John,” the DI jokes.

“You won't need to, Greg. I'll be on cases. Who else is going to keep him safe, uh?” John counters. All these worries are so silly.

The next stop – they're mid way through Sherlock's planned tour, and somehow it seemed sensate at the time of arranging this to put it there – they get to a night club where John can ogle his last not-Mary females. After all, he mentioned that specifically, and strippers are somewhat of a stag night tradition, aren't they? Anyway, nobody seems opposed to the idea – not even Sholto, about whom Sherlock has his suspicions – and so here they are.

The teasing gets a bit heavier, according to the situation, John's pupils dilate...everything is as it should be. And if Sherlock hates every second of this, and survives it by drinking too much and looking at his impossibly beautiful best friend instead of around, that's nobody's business. Certainly not Gavin's, even if his stares, anytime they fall on the detective, are almost pitying. Sherlock drinks to stop himself from snapping at him. No causing a scene tonight. Tonight is for John.

When, after a convenient (too long) time, the sleuth tries to guide them onwards, John cuts in, “Look, I know the night's not gone, but if I drink anymore I'll be puking later, and I really don't fancy that.”

Oh. of course. He lacks the practical knowledge for such things, and he couldn't ask people whom he didn't want to invite. They might give him wrong figures in revenge. How was he supposed to know?

“Let's call it a night,uh? Thank you, everyone. I had a great time,” John continues, warm and kind as always. The others agree and leave. Sherlock still hovers helplessly by John's side. He's been dismissed, but he doesn't want to part with him.

“And now, mister, I'm escorting you home,” the doctor tells his best friend. “Don't want you getting rapenapped before you get to the door.”

“Uh?”

“Beauty like you, all drunk and lonely? 'Course it gets 'napped by someone to have their wicked way with you. I would...If I was a woman, I mean.”

Sherlock can't fight the blush, or the tide of desire engulfing him. He doesn't do anything about it, though. He just mutters, “Home.”

And so, soon they're on a cab and John is giving the address to the driver, because Sherlock's brain is still playing catch up after the short circuit caused by John's sentence. (He didn't mean it like it sounded. Did he? No, of course he didn't. But there were whole seconds before he specified. What does that mean? And above all, what should Sherlock do now?)

Before Sherlock can reach a decision, they're already home. No, not John. John's not home here anymore, and it's almost enough to make Sherlock weep. He's not going to. John'd worry or be sad too, and that is taboo. Still, it's John who opens the door with his key. Sherlock insisted that he keep it. John doesn't need anyone's permission to get in. He surely hasn't asked before taking residence in Sherlock's unacknowledged heart. Not that the sleuth would ever mention something like that.They stumble on the stairs, and when they finally gain entrance to the flat, John asks for more alcohol. He'll never get it.

“But you said...” Sherlock objects.

“I lied. I wanted to be alone with you,” the doctor admits.

“Tonight disappointed you, after all,” the sleuth whines. John didn't want any other company. But then why did he write down so many names on the spreadsheet?

“What? No! It was beautiful,” John hurries to reassure. “But I want you now.”

“You have me, John. Always. And you're welcome to have your wicked way with me,” Sherlock quotes back. Oh. Perhaps bit not good, but Sherlock's brain-to-mouth filter was never that efficient, and now it's completely non existent.

“You don't mean that.” Not 'I didn't mean that', the detective notices. In vino veritas, is it? “Don't be stupid. Of course I do. And you're horny,” he replies.

The after-effects of the earlier show should have disappeared already. Shouldn't they? Does Sherlock care if it's just that? No.

“We can't,” John stammers.

“Tonight doesn't count,” the sleuth counters. He's pretty sure that's correct. Before John can pile up more objections, he adds, “Please.”

“Do you really want?” John asks, disbelieving.

“Anything. Everything. You,” Sherlock confesses, eager and lost at the same time. It shouldn't be so hard to get John to have sex. He internally pouts. “Do you want me to beg?” he queries, honestly puzzled.

That gets him thrown on the sofa and kissed to within an inch of his life, so the answer is...maybe? If only he could keep John (he can't, obviously, but it doesn't stop him from wishing). If it got him John he'd beg for days on end. Weeks. Forever.

When they finally part, Sherlock whimpers and tries to recapture John's lips immediately. The feeling of loss is just too keen to stop himself. He needs John. He needs to melt and be fused with him. This can't stop here. Thankfully, it doesn't.

John's brain has been emptied of anything but Sherlock. His sounds, his lips, and above all, how bloody much John loves this impossible man. He's forgotten what today is, what it means.

Playful, when Sherlock attempts another kiss, John evades him, but drops tiny kisses and licks on his jaw, and then starts sucking what will become a pretty spectacular hickey on his neck. For some reason, branding Sherlock as his own seems like a wonderful idea at the moment. If Sherlock's moans are any indication, he concurs.

John is busy fumbling with the buttons, eager for access to more of Sherlock, when the detective rolls his hips sensuously against him, with another moan of his own. It risks to ruin everything, because John feels all too wired for how little they've been doing, so he thoughtlessly barks, “Still.”

And Sherlock does, though he whines wordlessly in protest. There's a heady feeling running in John's veins while he promises huskily, “It gets better than this.”

Tired of being thwarted, he literally rips the shirt from Sherlock's body (these buttons had it coming anyway) and starts caressing, nipping and teasingly licking every inch of finally exposed chest. He teases the nipples to hardness, loving every broken sound that he can coax from his Sherlock's mouth.

He slides down his lover's body, tasting the navel and the flat stomach and sucking another mark on the left side, just above the hip.

And finally John finds himself kneeling between Sherlock's legs, and rewards him for being so obediently still until then by freeing his trapped cock. By now, Sherlock is not just hard. He's positively leaking.

“You still owe me a drink,” John reminds him, before licking it. It looks decidedly tasty. The experiment is a success on all accounts, so – holding Sherlock's hips back because as well behaved as he is there's no blaming him if he got a bit carried away now – John enthusiastically treats it like the best lollipop he's ever had. It's over embarrassingly quickly, Sherlock shouting his name in ecstasy, but neither of them cares.

John – finally – takes out his own long neglected cock and is about to masturbate then and there, between Sherlock's impossibly long legs, when Sherlock pleads hoarsely, “John. Let me.”

“Yes.” Oh yes. Whatever Sherlock wants.

The detective tugs him up, and through a couple of stumbling tries, John ends up seated beside him. Rather than playing with him, Sherlock elects to kneel – with entirely too much grace for it to be fair – and dive for the wondrous thing that has him riveted. He needs it – and for once, it's a need that he doesn't intend to deny.

In his overeagerness, he takes too much in, and chokes on it, triggering his gag reflex. It panics him. He's going to make a mess – ruin this now that he finally has it – he can't. The shame will most likely kill him. He lets up and somehow gets it under control.

And then he finds John's hands in his curls. Mmmh. Nice. And helpful. John's guiding him, so Sherlock allows himself to relax. He simply hums in pleasure and enjoys his treat, licking, sucking , and letting John's hands and his moans and praises (how Sherlock loves them) set the pace.

All too soon it's over, but now Sherlock knows John's taste, which is more than he ever expected. It's not enough, though. He'll never get enough of John. Sherlock licks him clean and reluctantly lets his prize go. Still, he nuzzles affectionately against it. John pets his curls still.

And it's all so heart-stoppingly beautiful, absolutely world-changing, that Sherlock can't bear the ever present thought ' this isn't supposed to happen; and after tonight it'll end'. So, without making a move to get up, he mumbles against John's thigh, “Pick me.”

“What?”

“Pick me. Not Mary. I'll behad...” Sherlock slurs.

“You'll what?” the doctor blurts out.

“Be...behave. Be good. Anything you want, John. Anything. But pick me,” the sleuth entreats.

“Pick you what?” John replies dazedly.

“Over her. She lies, you know,” Sherlock reveals.

“No, you...you lie,” John counters, confused and on his way to getting angry.

“I lied. And you were sad. She lies, you're happy. I don't know about what, but Mary. Lies. Everyday,” the detective reiterates fiercely. He'd thought it was about that stupid moustache at first. But that had gone, and readings from Mary had never changed. Will she lie forever? Or what happens when the truth, whatever it is, comes out? John will be angry, won't he? He was at Sherlock. And probably sad, if his current happiness is founded on lies.“I'll make you happy,” the sleuth promises eagerly.

“Will you?” John asks, disbelief in his voice.

“Yes!” Sherlock's vehement.

“But will you stay? For better, for worse, in sickness and in health?” After all, Mary will. Mary wouldn't abandon him, and as much as John loves Sherlock, he's frankly sick of being left behind by this amazing creature.

Sherlock laughs weakly. “I will even if you don't choose me. I can't live without you, John.” He's drunk, and all these unseemly truths are bubbling out of him.

“That's pat...pat.. _.clearly_ not true,” John rebukes, sadness in his voice.

“Is so!” Sherlock bits back. “I survived because you wanted me to! And 'cause I had you with me all the time.”

“I wasn't,” the doctor points out bitterly.

“Mind palace,” Sherlock explains. “When you moved in, you _moved in_.” He taps his head, emphasising the point.

“I'm in your Mind Palace?!” the doctor echoes, awed.

“You're my sanity, John. Whatever is left of it.”

“That's very flatt...nice.” John grins.

“It's true. I need you, John. More than her. More than anyone ever needed someone. Please.” Sherlock clutches John's trousers, desperation welling in his throat. He's going to weep if he's rejected. Damned his out of control emotions.

“You said a lot, but you didn't say the only words that would make me leave Mary. Even now. Tomorrow,” John utters softly. For Sherlock, he'd throw away his well-organized life on a blink. Especially if Mary is really lying. But Sherlock said so, and Sherlock is never wrong, is he? The git.

“Which words?” the sleuth asks. He'd say anything, absolutely anything to have John.

“Deduce it,” the doctor counters with a smirk.

Sherlock whines. It's unfair. He wouldn't be able to deduce whether the skull is human or not now, if he didn't know Billy already. “I can't,” he groans in despair.

“Wrong words,” John replies. The cheek of the man.

What does he want to make him say? He's already tried, 'I need you' and 'I'll behave', what more does he want? “I'm yours,” the detective acknowledges hoarsely. He is. Whether or not John wants him.

“Try again, you'll be luckier.”

“My captain,” tumbles unthinkingly from Sherlock's mouth.

“Nice idea, but not,” John states gently.

“John,” he invokes, even knowing that can't be what he wants.

“Sherlock,” his doctor replies evenly.

“I'm begging you,” he pleads. The mere prospect was something John liked before.

“No need to.” John's growing sad. Because Sherlock can't figure it out. He won't and he'll lose John – he's losing John _right now_ – and be left as a broken toy.

“Mercy,” he croaks, tears welling up in his eyes though they refuse to fall.

“I'm not leaving her if you won't say it,” John reiterates firmly.

“A hint,” he whimpers.

“No. you don't have to figure it out, Sherlock. You only say it if you feel it.”

Which is a hint of his own, even if John doesn't realize it. Feelings. _Sentiment_. Sherlock will forever fail at them. Is this what John wants? What does he even feel for John? He wants John to be happy. He wants to be the one to make him happy. To be by his side forever. For John to be the first and last thing he sees everyday. For John to outlive him, because life without him is inconceivable. It's a poor approximation for the depth of his regard, but probably... “I'm in love with you,” he whispers to the god above him.

Then John tugs him up, and kisses him ardently.

“I really, really do,” Sherlock assures when it ends, nuzzling against him.

“I love you too,” John reveals, depositing another soft kiss on his detective's brow. It should be impossible, but Sherlock is not going to argue. “So yes, I'll tell Mary that I chose you over her. Even if it's a bit late to say it. I have a feeling that she will understand.”

Soon after, they fall asleep like that, joined in an awkward embrace on the sofa. At least one of them will have an abrupt awakening falling off it, but at the moment they're too perfectly happy to worry about that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine. Here is the unplanned for second chapter. Still reversing things. I hope you enjoy!

Waking up is awful. Sherlock falls off the sofa, and his alarmed groan wakes John in turn. Both have a splitting headache – par for the course after that night, but still. Despite that, the moment a soft moan signals that John is conscious, from somewhere near his feet comes the plaintive request, “Are you going to tell Mary now?”

John is half tempted to fake having forgotten everything that happened the night before and reply, “Tell her what?” but even annoyed he can't be that cruel. So instead he whispers, “When I can talk without feeling ill. Be a dear and get us ibuprofen since you're up?”

Now _up_ might not be the most accurate description, but endearing himself to John is definitely on Sherlock's to-do list, so he complies.

It's only much later, in the early afternoon, when medication took effect and they've been fed (by a softly cooing Mrs. Hudson) and feel all around much better that John feels ready to face Mary. He brings Sherlock along for moral support, since he feels like a bastard calling everything off three days from the marriage, but there's no reason to make three people miserable. Of course he warns the sleuth severely against trying to be kind the way he was to Molly during the Moriarty affair. Or defending John should Mary lash out. “The blame is mine. I knew my feelings since years ago, and when you came back, I thought that I could just ignore them.”

“No John, I'm at fault. I rejected you so long ago and I had to leave and all around I gave you the false impression that I could live without you. Which is ludicrous, of course.”

“We can squabble over whose fault it is for years to come, now that we'll have them together. But first, Mary,” John sighs.

She shows no surprise seeing the both of them come in, only smiling at them. She is confused because John rang the bell, though. “Please tell me that you have not lost your key in some unsavoury place he dragged you in,” she only half jokes.

John produces said key. “No, no...but it didn't feel right to use it and barge in on you.”

“You do realize that you aren't making any sense, love, right?” she replies, her smile faltering for a moment and leaving a worried expression in its wake.

“I'll explain, promise. Maybe it's better if you sit up for that,” John says softly.

“John, now you're scaring me,” she counters, letting herself plop down on the sofa.

Instead of sitting beside her, John stands in front of her, like a judge, hand unconsciously clasped in Sherlock's, drawing strength. “I'm _so_ sorry, Mary,” he starts, and he's never been more honest, “you're really a great woman and I hate having to hurt you, but I can't marry you.”

“Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm the best thing that ever happened to you, remember?” she bits back sharply.

“Yeah, well...I didn't have all the facts when I said that,” the doctor counters, a bit ashamed of himself but stubborn. Sherlock, by his side, smiles.

“ _Oh_. So it's like that. I'm just the place-holder until he came around. Well, haven't I been understanding of whatever odd thing you two have? I can continue to be. To a point. But I'm afraid that relinquishing you totally is out of question, John. You're mine, you see.”

“Now, Mary, be rational,” John entreats, not knowing how to face such determination. “It wouldn't be fair. To either of the people involved. I mean, how can you want me still, knowing that there's someone else I would be loving more?”

Before she can answer, Sherlock – for the first time – interjects, “Easily, John. As long as she'd have you still. At least a bit.”

“You would know,” Mary snarls. “You understand, don't you? One does not simply give up on John Watson once he's in your life.” She's calmer now, stating obvious facts and nothing more.

“But you can't force him to stay, either. It doesn't work like that,” Sherlock replies, sounding almost compassionate.

“You see, Sherlock, _that_ 's were we're different.” Mary smiles, and then the world is upended. Because she takes a gun out of apparently nowhere, aims it at Sherlock and very calmly states, “I hadn't meant to. I didn't want to hurt anyone anymore. But once you're out of the picture, things will right themselves back.”

It's totally deranged a reasoning, of course, there's no way that John would love her again if she killed Sherlock, of all things, but there's no time to explain it to her. Mary shoots point blank range , and at the same time John throws Sherlock down and bodily shields him.

The world stops turning. John falls on top of his love, and Mary lets out a breathy, surprised and irritated, “Oh.” This wasn't the plan. John was supposed to be okay. To be hers. In the meantime, Sherlock is trying to overcome his panic, remember what he should be doing, (“Put pressure on the wound,” mind palace John echoes from a different lifetime) and endeavouring not to calculate the chance of John's survival (too bloody little).

For the first time, he's grateful that Mycroft gave his phone the chance to send an emergency signal, pressing whose key his brother would send people equipped to face any kind of disaster. He presses said key wildly. No time to call 999 and explain, now. When Mary leaves the sofa, he grits out, “If John dies you die. Slowly.”

“I don't think so. All that work on Moriarty's web and you didn't even know that I existed, much less neutralized me. You won't find me,” she replies, nonchalantly going past them. She wanted John, but now that he's going to die – her aim is always true – she might as well give it all up as a bad job and relocate.

Sherlock lets her go, unconcerned. Even if he has failed – he doesn't doubt her words; he knows this is not a lie, unlike before – there's Mycroft, who is probably tracking her already because she's John's, and seeing her leave nonchalantly the scene of Sherlock's distress signal is enough to have her brought in and questioned about why she's not trying to help, or at the very least bloody worried. Once they assess the truth of the situation, Mycroft will give her to Lestrade wrapped with a goddamned red bow and she'll be jailed. There's no need to worry about that.

No, what Sherlock is anxious about – and he's going to have words with Mycroft about that – is how bloody much more time will it take for help to get there? The ambulance is actually remarkably quick, in truth, but still considerably slower than thought (the only thing that would have appeased Sherlock). Then things are out of Sherlock's hands, even if they allow him to tag along. Seeing John code once on the ambulance, though they manage to revive him, does not help Sherlock's state of mind.

At the hospital, John is whisked away, and even if he doesn't believe – even if he's lost his faith decades ago – Sherlock finds himself praying to any god who might be willing to hear him out. Praying, begging and reasoning with Him. Explaining – in case He was distracted and missed it – that John Watson is the bravest, kindest, wisest and all around best man to ever be born, and hence the most deserving to live. And that Sherlock would gladly make the same trade that Moriarty proposed once again, no tricks this time, but John _has to_ live.

God, if He exists at all, doesn't answer. But John survives anyway, and Sherlock is allowed to curl up in an uncomfortable chair by his bedside and watch him sleep. Taking comfort in each soft breath John draws. Sherlock is entranced by the mere fact of John living, which doesn't feel very granted anymore. He doesn't even notice that long hours pass before John wakes up with a, “'Lock,” on his lips.

“I'm here,” the sleuth hurriedly assures. “Oh John. I'm so sorry.”

The doctor's reply is a vague interrogative sound.

“It's my fault that you got shot.”

“I'm pretty sure it was Mary. Unless the drugs...?” John mumbles.

“She did shoot, but if I hadn't misjudged her we'd be prepared for it and I'd need no saving. Or... if I hadn't asked to choose me at all...” Sherlock confesses, dismayed. He tried to have John all to himself, selfishly, and he almost lost him. It scares him. Mary would never have hurt John if he didn't meddle.

“Don't you dare think like that,” John bits back. “Even if you didn't love me, you shouldn't have let me marry her. She's raving mad.”

“But you like mad, John,” Sherlock counters. John would have never lasted by his side otherwise. Yes, Mary and he are different, but they're still more similar than he think he should probably be comfortable with.

“Within reason. And when I know what I'm signing for.” Then, John abruptly adds, “Goodnight, Sherlock,” and lets the meds put him into sleep again. When he wakes up again, Sherlock is still there, apparently not having moved a muscle. “Not that I'm not happy to see you, but did you move at all? Get a coffee? Chips?...Go to the bathroom?”

“You've been shot, John. I thought it was my turn to take care of you,” Sherlock replies with an amused smile.

“Oh you will, and I'll enjoy it while it lasts. But you can't take care of me if you pass out.”

“Point made. I'll behave. But we need to talk now, John. Set up some rules,” the detective states, looking almost solemn.

“Fine. Which ones?” John is more curious than anything.

“You don't try to save me anymore, John. Not by shielding me, at least. There's dangerous, and there's unacceptable,” the sleuth declares vehemently.

“If you still want us to be a couple, rules have to apply to the both of us, you know,” John counters calmly. “Are you okay with not saving me, or shielding me, or however you want to word it?”

This makes Sherlock frown. “John...I don't think I _can._ ” It would break some sort of physic's law, he's sure.

“And what makes you think that I _could_?”

The fact that it's proven by evidence that John can and will survive losing Sherlock, for one, but the reverse isn't and will never be true. Not now that they've met and Sherlock knows what life with John is. But John's voice just now was sad, almost disappointed, and that must immediately be corrected. So, instead of proving his point, Sherlock lets it go with a shrug. “Another rule, then. You simply can't die.”

John laughs. “I'll certainly do my best not to. And you agree that it applies to both, even if you keep wording things like that, don't you?”

“Oh _please_ John. You know that I hate repeating myself. Of course I won't.”

John grins widely at that. This is his Sherlock. And it's true now, isn't it? _His Sherlock_. Who will make questionable experiments in the kitchen, lead him on cases and now, apparently, take care of him. And love him. And kiss him. “Kiss me,” he demands. Just to check that the new development isn't a fantasy. A morphine and alcohol induced dream. Sherlock is only too glad to comply.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Poll: Is John's hunch correct? Will Mary understand? Or will she very calmly pull out a gun?


End file.
